


Isala Hamin

by spare



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Fade Dream(s), Fainting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spare/pseuds/spare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-post of a kink meme fill.  Inquisitor Lavellan faints from exhaustion.  Solas checks in on her, both in the Fade and out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isala Hamin

**Author's Note:**

> This was the original prompt:
> 
> So, i figure being the Inquisitor is pretty stressful, it wouldn't be so farfetched that Lavellan would forget to eat or forgo sleeping, ect to manage the Inquisition. Cue one day all of the stress and lack of food/sleep causing her to black out and faint, much to the chagrin of her LI (Solas or Cullen) 
> 
> Bonus points if she passes out while she's climbing stairs/riding her mount and maybe accrues additional injuries because of that 
> 
> Mega bonus points for Lavellan's LI being very cross with her for neglecting her health and helping her manage her schedule better so it doesn't happen again
> 
> \----
> 
> ... I didn't get the bonus points, and I also fail at fluff, apparently. Oh, well. This is set sometime after acquiring Skyhold but before Fade tongue (LOL). Enjoy?
> 
> **09/07/2015 Edit:** Fixed a few grammatical and stylistic nitpicks. Because I'm OC like that.
> 
> _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ and corresponding characters belong to Bioware. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.

_What leaves Skyhold at daybreak and returns before dawn?_ Ellana finds herself musing, riding briskly past the gates.  _Me._

There's another riddle to be made about that, she thinks; one whose answer would be,  _'Because she returns three days later.'_  Simple, yes, but clever enough. But then that may simply be the sleep-deprivation talking—two days' worth, thereabouts—or her own poor stomach, involuntarily relieved of its contents midway through the journey back to the fortress. Serves her right, she supposes, for electing to ride alone, ahead of the others. Her fingers are cold. Her face feels hot. When she dismounts, the muscles of her legs scream a thousand prickly protests. She sways, the world spins—

She bites her lip. Through some small miracle, she manages to stay on her feet. The young stablehand is too busy minding the horse to notice, his manner almost obnoxiously cheerful as he prattles on, asks her how everything went, and does Your Worship need anything.

“ _Swimmingly,”_  she says, her vision doing much the same. “ _Everything went swimmingly.”_  She would be delighted to have a hot meal, yes, and a warm bath, yes, certainly, but later. For now, she would like nothing better than to crawl into her own bed and sleep.

She gets as far as the stairway leading up to her quarters before a messenger accosts her. Leliana bears troubling news from Wycome, a development that needs to be dealt with post-haste.

Oh, dear.

Sleep temporarily forgotten, Ellana summons her advisors to the war room.

_Fen'Harel take this duke,_  she remembers cursing afterwards. She could only hope that the Lady Guinevere Volant would prove a match against the murdering bastard. Duke Antoine must be stopped, her clan kept safe.

She remembers stumbling a bit stepping out into the corridor, Josephine asking if she was all right _._

She doesn't remember replying.

~o~

Ellana doesn't remember fainting, either, but that was what she apparently did.

It was Cullen who had carried her up to her quarters, she is told, and she remembers that; remembers groggily peering up at the commander's face and trying to smile, mumbling, “ _I'll never live this down, will I?”_

“ _Not until I get you into bed, Inquisitor,”_  Cullen had replied cryptically. (He later explains, to much stammering and reddening of ears at the accidental innuendo, that he'd thought what she said was, _'Put me down.'_  Mystery solved.)

She vaguely remembers spending the rest of the day floating in and out of consciousness.

Awake, (perhaps) she overhears:

“— _only a fever, thankfully. With proper rest, she'll be—”_

“— _shouldn't have let her ride alone. What if—”_

“ _They're here. Sera says they'd run into a spot of trouble, that's why—”_

Asleep, (perchance) she dreams:

_"Be my eyes, da'len. Dareth shiral."_

“ _Just come back alive, all right?”_

“ _Help!”_

 

_Too many eyes_

_The better to see you with, my—_

~o~

“ _Vhenan.”_

The voice is low, calm, soothing. A hand enfolds hers, gentle yet firm. Cool fingers sweep the hair away from her brow.

“ _Ar tu na eth. Hamin nadas.”_

And so she does.

~o~

When next she wakes, she is alone, and night has already fallen.

She is still in bed, buried waist-deep beneath a particularly cumbersome everknit blanket. Someone had changed her out of her leathers and into a loose-fitting lambswool nightshirt. She reeks of sleep and stale sweat and dried herbs, but she feels ever so much better.

Herbs, yes.

There's a poultice of elfroot applied to her forehead; clumps of it fall onto her lap as she props herself up in bed, taking a look around. It's dark in her room, the only sources of light coming from the moon outside and the dying fire in the hearth.

_Better tend to it now, then._

She gets up—nary a wobble there—and heads to the fireplace. She bends over, tinderbox and poker in hand—

And nearly jumps out of her skin when the door leading out of her quarters swings open, admitting Solas inside.

Her only consolation is that for a second or two he seems just as startled as she. He looks from Ellana to the hearth, and then back to Ellana. His jaw clenches. His eyes narrow. The hearth wins; Solas resolutely redirects his gaze towards it, and whether by dint of that or his magic, the fireplace crackles back to life.

“You should be in bed,” he says, as if he weren't sure whether to chide or cajole her.

Ellana is touched either way. “Yes, well,” she responds, all casual and smooth, “so should you. Separately,” she adds in a rush, belatedly realizing how that last suggestion might come off. “In another bed. Because it's night and of course you need to—”

Solas holds up his hand. “I know what you mean, Inquisitor.”

“Good.” She smiles, unable to help herself. She clears her throat. “That said, why  _are_  you here, Solas?”

“I wanted to see you.” A beat. “As did most of our companions,” he appends, as if that required clarification. “Cassandra was particularly anxious to know how you were faring. It isn't, after all, in the Inquisition's best interest to have their leader suddenly take ill.”

“It's only a fever,” she scoffs.

“One that made you pass out.”

Ellana shrugs. “I badly needed sleep. In any case, I'm all healed up now. A bit of food and plenty of hot, clean water, and I'll be back in tip-top shape,” she finishes, flexing her arms to prove her point.

Solas, however, looks far from impressed. Wordlessly, he approaches her, stopping only when they are face to face, a hand's breadth away from each other. He reaches out, touches the back of his hand to her forehead. Ellana forgets to breathe.

“It's true that the fever's broken,” Solas pronounces after a moment. He looks away, draws his hand back, draws  _himself_  back, and she is torn between relief at regaining the ability to respire properly and dismay. “Still, I would advise more rest. But only after you've eaten. I shall have a meal sent up. Broth, and perhaps a bit of bread, unless there's anything else you would like in particular?”

_You._ Ellana blinks. By the Creators, she hadn't actually said that out loud, had she? “Anything's fine,” she replies, managing a smile. “So long as you would be so kind as to join me.”

~o~

He is, and so he does, over an evening's repast of leek soup, leftover apple tarts, and some sort of steaming, bubbling decoction that makes Ellana's eyes water just from peering at it.

“The cook claims that it is a 'foolproof family remedy',” Solas informs her. “It may not be to your taste, but it is perfectly safe to imbibe it.”

She casts another doubtful look at the mug's contents. Beneath the steam and froth, the liquid is a dark, murky green. “'Perfectly safe',” she echoes. “Sure.”

“Barring a burned tongue, yes,” Solas allows, smiling thinly. “I can personally attest that one of Leliana's agents has duly tested it for poison.”

“I didn't mean—” Ellana starts, but catches herself. “No... I suppose I did. Ir abelas.”

He shakes his head. “There is no need to apologize, lethallin. In fact, given your position, it would be best for you to be constantly wary of others, ally or no.”

She frowns, mulling over his words. “Even so,” she says at last, “of all people, I feel that I should be able to trust  _you_ , Solas.”

“Do you now?” he asks, blue-grey eyes staring intently into hers. “Why? Because I am an elf, as you are?”

“Because you are a friend,” she answers simply. More than that, even. Teacher. Confidante. Unfortunate recipient of questions about everything elf- and magic-related she could think of, what with Keeper Deshanna in distant Wycome and therefore safe from her pestering. And, of late, blissfully ignorant recipient of certain stupidly persistent feelings that Ellana is far too cowardly to own up to at the moment. If at all.

And so she closes her eyes, tips her mug, and downs the contents of the fabled foolproof remedy in three long gulps. Surprisingly, it tastes all right; mildly sweet, with hints of cinnamon and ginger. Even more surprisingly, color and steaming frothiness aside, she could swear it is exactly like a certain energy drink traditionally prepared by the healers of her clan. Good for a host of minor ailments, yes... but more commonly used as an aphrodisiac.

“This is—” But Ellana can't bring herself to mention  _that_  little tidbit. Not to him, not with her face heating up for reasons beyond fatigue-induced fever. “—familiar,” she says instead. “And certainly effective. I shall have to ask the cook for the recipe later on.”

Solas nods approvingly. “A fine idea. Incidentally, she  _has_  promised to share it. But only on the condition that you take better care of yourself in the future.”

Her mouth quirks. “That would take some doing.”

“That it would,” Solas agrees, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips. “Still, not having to repeat today's events ought to be incentive enough, I should think.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Ellana shrugs, and in an arch tone continues, “A day spent in bed, an excellent meal, and even better company? I can imagine worse fates.”

He laughs. “Perhaps. But such things should not be preceded by you being feverish and unconscious.”

“I won't make a habit of it, I swear,” she says, holding up a hand. Her left one: the hand that she favors, the one that is marked. She becomes aware of this only because Solas has; he looks at it, at the mark on her palm, all traces of mirth abruptly vanishing from his face.

Almost just as abruptly, he rises from his seat. “It's getting late, and I fear I've already taken too much of your time,” he declares, his manner reverting to his usual polite detachment while studiously avoiding her eyes. “I should take my leave.”

Her brow furrows, and it is all she could do not to look so openly stupefied.  _What is up with him?_ She is tempted to ask, but something in the tautness of his shoulders makes her hold her tongue; bids her—for this instance, at least—to let him keep himself to himself. “... All right,” she relents, speaking carefully. “Another time, then.”

When he nods, his relief is apparent. “Good night.”

~o~

“You are insufferable,” Ellana tells him afterwards. She only dares, of course, because it is a dream. It's not the real Solas sitting by the campfire in some random clearing, and thus it is all too easy to air out her frustrations to him. Dreams were awfully convenient that way. “You keep showing up, doing—” She gestures vaguely, “—doing  _things_ , and then you just leave. I can't quite figure you out.”

“I could say the same of you,” this Fade version of him wryly answers back, in typical Solas fashion. He is situated close enough for her to notice how a passing breeze stirs the fur-lined collar of his jerkin; close enough to appreciate the gleam of firelight in his eyes, on the jawbone pendant hanging from his neck, on his pale, bare head. “You are a veritable heap of surprises.”

It's a testament to how vivid this dream is that Ellana has to force herself not to look away. “Is that a compliment?”

Dream-Solas smiles. “In a manner of speaking.” His gaze drifts down, to the mark on her hand, his smile fading as before at the sight of it. Instead of excusing himself, however, he asks, “Does it still hurt?”

“Not since Haven, no,” she responds. “It... pulses, of course, especially when there's a Rift nearby, but it's nowhere near as strong as before. Half of the time, I forget it's even there.”

“So I've noticed.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Should it not?” Solas replies, looking her square in the eye. “You literally hold tremendous power in the palm of your hand. It would be wise never to forget that.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Just as it would be wise to remember that you  _are_  mortal, regardless of that fact.”

She arches an eyebrow up at him. “I'm all too aware, don't worry.”

“And yet recent events suggest otherwise,” he returns, unfazed. “Your apparent proclivity for danger notwithstanding.”

Ellana sighs. Even in dreams, he could be so contrary. “You've got me there,” she admits, smiling not unfondly at the man. “Very well. Both for your sake and for that foamy aphrodisiac—” —At this, Solas' eyes widen ever so slightly, “—I shall endeavor to safeguard my health. I'll eat heartily, sleep properly, and work on stabbing things dead as quickly and efficiently as possible.” She rubs the back of her neck and continues, offhand, “I'll probably forget about all this when I wake up, though. This being a dream and all.”

“Then I'll be sure to remind you of it,” Solas vows, voice glib. He does not smile, not quite, but there is a wolfish, wicked twinkle in his eye that sends her heart racing all the same.

They talk a bit more after that. He tells her of an old fisherman who claims to have visited a kingdom beneath the sea. She tells him that decidedly stupid riddle she had made up on the sly, the one that's really more a trick question than anything.

Towards the end of it, laughter bubbling from her lips, Ellana stills, suddenly realizing something. Her gaze locks with his.

“You were the one, weren't you?” she blurts out. “From before. When I was asleep. You held my hand. You said you'd keep me safe; that I should rest.”  _And earlier than that,_  she recalls, coloring slightly,  _I think you called me—_

“So you remember?” Solas asks, mercifully cutting that train of thought.

“Yes,” she replies. Well enough, for now at least. She smiles at him again, bright and clear and brilliant. “Thank you, as always—”

~o~

“—Solas,” Ellana mutters, her eyes fluttering open. She yawns wide, stretches her arms, and kicks off her everknit blanket, shedding the last vestiges of sleep away—and her dream, whatever it was—with it.

A dream that had her saying his name.

_Well,_ to quote a certain eloquent dwarf,  _shit._

She'll deal with it later. For now she had other pressing matters to attend to: namely breakfast, a hot bath, and a clean change of clothes.

She is alone, and it is morning.

~end~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Canon Elvish:  
> Isala Hamin - in need of rest  
> da'len - child  
> Dareth shiral - Safe travels. (used as a common farewell)  
> vhenan - heart (a term of endearment)  
> Ir abelas - I am sorry.  
> lethallin - kinsman
> 
> Non-Canon Elvish (most likely butchered because please Bioware won't you publish an official lexicon):  
> Ar tu na eth - I will keep you safe.  
> Hamin nadas - You must rest.


End file.
